“Your Majesty. The ranking regional leader of your army, General Thibalt, is prepared to offer you a briefing on the circumstances the army now confronts at this, er—juncture. Shall I let him enter?” An attendant asked.

Felderon lay atop a thin cot within his tent, ribs and arms bound up, the bones in his arm having been recently set. He’d drunk some water with a little wine, but hadn’t eaten anything in he didn’t know how long. He wished to sleep, to escape, to see Cylene once again—anything to verify his grip on reality. But no. “What is your name man?”

The attendant raised his brow. “Raymond, Your Majesty. I am called Raymond.”

Felderon waved his hand. “Let him in Raymond.”

“General Thibalt,” the attendant announced and left the tent.

The general knelt and King Felderon waved his one good hand, indicating that the general should rise.

“Your Majesty. I am very sorry to impose upon you in your current indisposition, but…”

“You have no choice, I understand,” Felderon said. “I should offer my thanks for stopping Serge along the way. I supposed he would tire and stop, but he has stamina.” It wouldn’t surprise Felderon if the stallion was getting his revenge for too many years of harsh handling.

“He’s a spirited war horse, your Majesty.”

“Don’t be stupid, General Thibalt. Serge savaged me. You think me a fool for not letting go of my whip.”

"That does not describe--"

"That horse is crucial."

"Crucial?"

"Some might say Serge is the best proof of my identity--my very right to the Chalbeam throne."

"Is he?"

Felderon grunted. "He's not the worst." More than that, Serge was a link to a reality that seemed to be slipping through his fingers. "Do you believe beasts have a sense of justice?"

Thibalt paused to consider. “After a manner, yes, the beasts do have a sense of what is right—for them.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Serge has bourn me for many miles. Possibly he's reached the end of his rope, so to speak.”

“Or rather, the end of Your Majesty’s whip,” Thibalt said.

Felderon would have laughed, but his ribs ached and he stifled the impulse. “I'm not a cruel man by nature, Thibalt. But would you lose your confidence in a King’s leadership if he admitted to having been blind?”

Thibalt stared at the floor, silent.

“Well?”

“Such a frank acknowledgement would increase my confidence in my king, assuming he were otherwise a steady hand.”

Felderon smirked. “Make one acknowledgement of fault and the king is human. Make a second and he’s on the line. A third, and he’s a basketcase. I take your meaning, General. But I make no warranties. You had a briefing for me, I believe. Speak freely. I’m not going anywhere.”

Thibalt cleared his throat and began a dry recounting of events, drawing a picture of a devastated army. A desperate township. A voracious dragon. He added a few fine details and then wrapped these items up in a bow and dropped them in Felderon’s lap. His head throbbed by the end of it.

“I cannot believe this township under King Olanda’s governance tolerates the tyranny of a dragon upon his citizens! I cannot believe the citizens agree to pay the dragon with the lives of their own children!”

“It is difficult to believe,” Thibalt said.

“And have you tapped a man to stand as champion?”

Thibalt lowered his gaze. “I have no choice but to take responsibility myself. I am the ranking military officer. The citizens have fed and housed my wounded and starving men. I cannot abandon them.”

“Ah!” Felderon appraised the general with new eyes. “You will take responsibility for this foolish people—full knowing that the dragon will win and bring new demands for tributes next season?”

“I assume some wiser citizens and at least my wounded armies, will evacuate this township before that time.”

Felderon exhaled long and low. “I have little enough army left after these years of war. I would like my best leaders to survive.”

Thibalt was holding his breath. “What do you propose then?”

Groaning low, Felderon said, “I can’t easily sit you down and acknowledge my foolish abuse of a spirited horse and overlook you and my own armies slavish devotion in executing your king’s foolish war. Or can I be so blind?”

Thibalt met his gaze. “No, Your Majesty.”

“I might have been so blind—once. I might have been worse than blind.”

“And yet, you cannot survive this contest with the dragon, Oh King. It is yet my duty to protect you above my men—above anyone.”

“I acknowledge this. But I discharge you of your duty, except for evacuating the army and the citizens of the township. I do not know how much damage this contest will wreck on the countryside before my death—which I think is inevitable. That said, I do not plan to go down without a fight. If I can damage him, some number of healthy men should circle back to magnify that harm if possible. The treaty is with Olanda, not us.”

Thibalt took a knee and bowed his head. “May God Save King Felderon the Brave!”

Here, Felderon laughed open-mouthed, willingly bearing the ache to his ribs. “I thought I would never live down Felderon the Fool, but it comes to me that the two titles are one and the same!”